


trace the lines

by hikaie



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Meetings, Misunderstandings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:15:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10714758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: She joins Overwatch to prove a point to herself; there's nothing D.Va can't master, not even this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa-kay... I've been struggling a lot, debating with myself if I want to post this. I'm still pretty indecisive, to tell you the truth, but I've been working on it for some time, and I keep coming back to it. It keeps nagging at me and I just want to... throw it out there, and see what happens. 
> 
> Uh, the ship listed is the hopeful endgame, but I won't be getting there for a bit most likely. This is a Hana-centered fic, and it's going to focus a lot on her interactions with Overwatch, and the romance is going to come secondary, but it'll be the primary focus later on? Hope that makes sense. And the rating will probably go up. And I'll be adding more tags, haha. That all said, if it's not your cup of tea, please don't send me hate. Concrit is always welcome however. If you're going to hate-read this anyway (don't we all do that sometimes?) you've had ample warning.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.
> 
> (Hopeful) next update: 30-APR-2017

As they touch down on the helipad, Hana seamlessly shifts her body to account for the rough landing. The sun is cresting over the waves in the distance; it had been chasing them the entire thirty minute ride from the access point. She exits the aircraft alone, and watches it fly into the opposite direction than where they came in. When the morning is quiet but for the far off sound of crashing waves and seabirds ( _and her heartbeat thundering in her ears_ ), a computerized voice emanates from an unseen speaker.

“Private Song, welcome. We have been expecting you. Please proceed to medical intake.” The voice is feminine and commanding; Hana knows how to listen. She follows the now-lighted pathway through the base: from the helipad, across the roof and down a zig-zagging flight of sun-bleached stairs, through an outdoor corridor where weeds are sprouting through the cracked pavement, up to an automatic door that gives way easily when she approaches. Within, it is more clean and modern, but the scents of long-disuse hang in the air. Dust and mildew make her wrinkle her nose.

“Welcome!” Rumbles a deep voice from off to her left. She startles when she sees the large gorilla amble towards her, but quickly straightens to attention. “I see you’ve found us alright. How was the transport?”

“Good, sir.” He laughs and claps his hand around hers when she offers to shake his. It dwarfs hers by maybe five or six times the size. She struggles not to get pulled around like a ragdoll as he shakes it eagerly.

“No ‘sir’! I’m just Winston, here.” He smiles, and she notices he’s wearing a glasses. _He’s a talking gorilla but he needs glasses?_ “I can still call you Private, if you prefer.”

“Hana is fine.” She smiles; it feels familiar and plastic all the same. She can feel herself slipping between careful militaristic manners and something more laidback.

“Excellent, right this way Hana.” He gestures for her to follow him and she does. The lights flick on as they move down a white corridor, taking turns so numerous she can’t keep track. He lopes along at a speed she didn’t quite expect, causing her to take extra-long strides to keep up. He speaks as he walks, everything done with a purpose, though he’s not unkind.

“We’ve a few already back at the base. Old crew, you see. And we’re expecting some new recruits such as yourself over the coming weeks. It’s quite a large space so don’t expect to be tripping over one another. Dr. Ziegler will be assisting us today in getting you settled in.” He stops at a door so suddenly she nearly runs into him.

Winston fiddles with the passcode protected lock, then moves to the side to let her in. “After you, then.”

She steps past him and into the lab. There’s a woman seated at a desk, blonde hair swept into a ponytail, fly-aways popping out at every angle. She glances over her shoulder at their entrance and smiles, seeming exasperated.

“Winston, back so soon. Give me one moment.” She turns back to her work and Hana hears the furious pin-prick pings of a holokeyboard.

“This is Dr. Ziegler.” Winston intones quietly, though she doesn’t doubt the doctor can’t hear them. “We’ll just be putting you through the regular physical today and taking some scans, get your clearance set up.” He smiles at her. “Sound good?”

“Yes, s- Yes.” She smiles uncomfortably. She hates physicals.

“And, Hana- just one, minor, very important thing-” Winston shrugs good-naturedly. “No streaming of anything around base. Highly confidential, you see. We’ll go over it more during your brief later today. Understood?”

It’s here that the sir is expected, she realizes. “Of course, sir.”

“Wonderful. I’ll be back around when you’re done! Take good care of her, Angela.” He says the last part with a warning, teasing edge to it then leaves her alone with the other woman.

Hana stands awkwardly in the middle of the room as Dr. Ziegler- Angela, apparently- keeps mashing away at the holokeyboard. It’s not that she’s not thrilled to be here- she _is,_ it’s a dream come true, everyone her age knows the myth, the _legend_ that is Overwatch- but everything is coming up lackluster to her childlike dreams. That’s not new for her, not at all, but it doesn’t soften the blow any. She looks around at all the equipment, the sterile tools and beds and standard bright and cheery, admonishing medical posters. It feels… familiar. Normal, even.

“Right, then.” Dr. Ziegler stands from her chair with a whirl and pushes her hair into something more suitable, rushing across the lab to wash her hands. “Why don’t you take a seat and we’ll get started?”

_Ugh_ , she thinks. _I hate physicals._

* * *

Hana spends her first week at the Watchpoint learning the lay of the land. The corridors twist and overlap, doors buzz out her clearance at times, but she’s determined to not get lost on her own turf. The training grounds are decent and the hangar, though empty and disused as everything else, has ample space for her mech and as much supplies as she’ll ever need for maintenance. She’s used to all the bells and whistles- up at a certain time, lights out at a certain time, mess at 1100, training at 1400- but it’s different here. She’s left to her own devices, expected to train on her own time, allowed free access to the kitchens. She’s expected to be on high alert, waiting for a task, which is the norm, always the norm for her to be on the edge of her seat waiting for action.

She takes a lot of walks.

It’s kind of boring. There’s a lot of in-and-out, operatives coming and going. She meets one Lena Oxton for all of five seconds before the girl is zooming off at Athena’s gentle reminder that Winston is expecting her. Aside from that, she watches from afar as agents come and go as they please, bringing or taking supplies.

She’s taking a catwalk she’s yet to explore from the training area back to the barracks. It gives her an expansive view of a greater courtyard in the eastern wing of the Watchpoint. She stops when she sees a man tuning a battered acoustic guitar in the shade of an overgrown olive tree.

“Hiya.” She calls.

The man looks up, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun. She sees him smile; it seems to fit on his face with the way indents fill in around his mouth.

“Hello there.” He turns a tuning peg idly, not looking as he does it. “You’re a new face ‘round here.”

“I could say the same for you.” She leans against the railing. “Are you?”

“What, new?” He strums the strings to get a sound for it, winces, and decides against it. He goes back to twisting the pegs. “I reckon I am, of a sort.”

“What’s that mean? You either are or you’re not.”

He laughs, and it sounds like he’s used to that, too: it’s the kind that comes from the belly, genuine and easy. “Sweetheart, were that life was so black and white.” He plucks the lowest string and it twangs, an ugly sound.

Hana scowls. “Sweetheart?”

“Pardon me.” He smiles, twists some pegs again, and this time when he strums it sounds golden; a perfect melody. “That’s just my Southern hospitality speakin’. Name’s McCree. But’ch’ya can call me Jesse, miss…?”

“Song. Hana Song.” She replies. He smiles again.

“Miss Song. Well ain’t that mighty ironic.” He shifts his fingers across the frets and begins to strum out a tune, which echoes across the stone walls surrounding the courtyard. Jesse McCree settles back against the tree trunk and, seemingly pleased with his tune up, begins to play an old, familiar song. She feels that it’s his politest way of ending their conversation, so she takes one last look at him before continuing on down the catwalk, a renewed bounce in her step. There’s _people_ here now. _A team,_ she thinks. _My team_.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! I had most of this written out ahead of time but I added a couple paragraphs and some more build-up. I'm really thrilled that this is getting a nice response so far! This chapter is about the same length and build-up as the first, but things are going to start speeding up after this most likely. Enjoy, and please leave comments if you'd like!
> 
> Expect Chapter 3 up next Sunday.

She’s pulled out of a deep sleep by a blaring alarm. Athena’s voice accompanies the noise, notifying her to “report to Hangar C. Emergency Alert. All agents, immediately report to Hangar C. Emergency Alert. All agents, immediately report to-”

Hana tears out of her bed, stuffing her feet in her boots instead of the bunny slippers abandoned by the edge of her bunk. Her pistol is, unfortunately, in her mech. But Hangar C is where it’s housed, so if she’s quick, she might be able to retrieve it. Nonetheless, with training under her belt, she could still respond to an emergency, probably. (She doesn’t have a choice.) She runs through the halls, mapping the quickest route in her head- two rights, one left, long hallway, three doors, third left arch in the bay, through the hall and out onto-

A terrace. She sucks in a breath. She can hear waves crashing, and the sky is still dark. She jogs around the corner of the complex, down a set of cobbled steps and ends up smack dab in front of the hangars. Bay C’s door is open, lights flashing inside. She presses herself against the wall, suddenly wary, and edges up to the door, peeking around the wall.

_Nothing…? No-_

The lights flash on, backlighting several silhouettes. Her heart jumps, but the lights outline a scruffy face and a flyaway-mess of a ponytail.

“Dr. Ziegler? Jesse?” She edges her way into the hangar and joins them beside a tarp-covered pile of crates. There are others here, too, but she can barely make them out between the dark and the rapidly flashing lights.

McCree yawns and mumbles something that doesn’t even sound like English. She turns to Dr. Ziegler, more confused. “Are we in danger?” She merely shrugs. Hana can barely make out her face, but her eyes give away that she knows _something_. They stand around, the alarm blaring and lights flashing for a good five minutes before a streak of blue joins them in the hangar and the alarms die as suddenly as they had begun. The lights go up.

She’s surrounded by sleepy looking agents, all in various stages and types of dress. Dr. Ziegler has her lab coat on over a stained tee shirt and cotton pajama pants, Jesse is only wearing sweats and is sans-arm, and the vaguely familiar bodies and faces around her are all in pretty much the same state. She feels silly, herself; barefoot in sturdy boots that chafe, wearing sleep shorts and a tank top and _no bra_. A breeze comes in through the open bay and she crosses her arms. Angela shoots her a sympathetic look.

“Impressive timing.” They all look up at Winston, perched on a balcony with a perfect view of the crowd. “Except for you, Lúcio.” Lúcio? _The_ Lúcio? Hana glances around and spots him at the edge of the crowd, iconic skates pulsing a vibrant disco of blues and greens. The man is panting, and he grimaces in Winston’s general direction.

“I’m new man! Took me like, ten tries to find this place.”

“Hana has only been here a week and a half longer and she found us in adequate time.” Winston gestures a large hand in her direction. She makes eye contact with Lúcio and looks away, embarrassed. “Perhaps take a page out of her book.” She swallows.

“The rest of you- good work. Good response time. McCree, liven up.” The man jumps when barked at, shuffling his feet nervously.

“Sir.” He slurs tiredly.

“I’ll expect even better next time. That goes for all of you. This isn’t like the old days; I know it’s the thing we’ve all been holding on to.” She feels the pregnancy of the air around her, things she can’t comprehend going unsaid. “We need to be better. Faster. Stronger. We have more enemies now than ever. Make every second count, agents.” He lets his final words resonate, and then dismisses them all.

Hana hangs back for a moment, eyeing her fellow agents. This is her first time seeing most of them up close, let alone at all. Lúcio lazily skates out of the hangar, sweeping his dreads up into a bun as he goes. Lena is laughing quietly as Jesse bumbles half-asleep out of the hangar. There’s a large man with a scar over his eye speaking quietly with Dr. Ziegler, voice almost at odds with his size.

Since she’s wide awake from the “practice run”, she decides to set up a late night stream. She sends off a tweet while she’s in the kitchen. She can feel her phone buzz incessantly with notifications as she pushes items aside in the fridge, digging for the Mello Yello at the back. Back in her quarters, she slides off her boots and wiggles her toes. There’s already a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on her desk, so she starts up her rig and unravels the bag.

It’s _easy_. The chat is a flood of emoticons and pings; her automod and one of the real deal work in tandem to zap spammers and assholes. She doesn’t have her usual lighting set up and she crunches loud enough into the mic that a few people comment; otherwise she says a cheery hello whenever a new viewer enters her room or a new sub pops up. She answers questions in between kills. Someone points out the area for a collectible she’s already collected twelve times, but she humors them. It’s _simple_.

She decides to go offline sometime around seven her time. The floor is cold; she pads across the room and slides into her slippers. Her bed is still in disarray, so she folds down the sheets and straightens the comforter out, gets everything tucked perfect-corners where it should be. Hana pulls on her robe and peeks out into the hallway.

Yellow lights line the corridor. There seem to be no other signs of life, so she quietly exits her room and makes her way to the kitchen. Already there’s a half-empty pot of coffee and an electric kettle heating up on the counter. The fridge is overfull with an abundance of foods- leftover curry, a Tupperware container half-full with fried rice, some kind of pasta salad in a large pot. The door is littered with condiments from soy sauce to mushy peas, and there are at least three distinct types of milk on the right hand side. The selection dizzies her sleep-deprived mind.

She decides on eggs with leftover rice. People trickle in and out of the kitchen, visiting the carafe or kettle and digging up their own breakfasts. Dr. Zeigler trails in and throws several questionable items into a blender before bidding Hana a sleepy ‘Good morning.’ as she slumps out, sipping her bright green protein shake.

“Nice stream last night.” She looks up at the voice. Lucio enters the kitchen, gait crooked. He’s wearing different prosthetics, she notices.

“I didn’t know you watched.” She swallows and grins at him.

“Of course.” He surveys the insides of the fridge and makes a face. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you, actually. Crazy small world.”

“I could say the same.” Suddenly she’s reminded of Hollywood, being starry-eyed and meeting so many actors she’d only ever heard of; never thought to work with. It’s just as bizarre to meet the disc-jockey- his hair is twisted up into a massive, drooping bun; he’s draped in an oversized frog-tee and basketball shorts. He smiles at her. It’s the normal abnormal.

“That’s nice of you to say. I’m no D.Va!”

“ _Pft_. Different circles.” She waves her hand noncommittally. Her fork scrapes against her plate as she pushes rice and eggs around. “I loved your last album!”

“Yeah?” He pulls out a chair at the table and falls into it in a seamless motion- ragdoll on anyone else, but easy on the obviously-practiced dancer.

“Of course! I’d… love to get your autograph sometime.” His eyes light up.

“Only if you sign my copy of _Hero of My Storm._ ”

“Deal.” She winks at him and he laughs.

“Okay, one more favor then.” He leans across the table a bit. “Think you can show me around this place?”

 “Yeah.” Her stomach bubbles- nerves and giddiness. “I think I can do that.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late+short update! I've been going through something lately and it's made me very tired and not have the drive to write. I figured I'd get this out because I promised it! Next chapter things are going to start picking up most likely! It probably feels really slow right now but I promise it's all leading to something. :) Thanks for holding on for this update and as always enjoy!
> 
> Expected next update: 14th-16th May

Hana gets up early the next morning, having crashed at 1900 the day before. She slogs around her room in a blur- pulls on yoga pants and a track jacket, slips into her sneakers and tightens the laces all in the dark, squinting and half-awake. The base is quiet, except for Athena, who greets her as she exits her room and also as she exits the building. Once outside, she ties up her hair. It’s just before dawn, the sky a hazy gray and the air cool. She requests Athena to track a course around the base for her.

“Certainly, Private Song.”

Hana adjusts her earbuds and stretches against the side of the building, shoes leaving dusty scuff marks against the faded metal. A low techno beat starts up, closely followed by Athena’s voice directing her down the length of the building, around a right corner.

She makes methodic laps around the Watchpoint, losing herself to the rhythm of her feet slapping the ground and the inhale-exhale of her breath. The sun breaks over the cliff and causes her to break out in a sweat, quickly chilled by her pace and the light sea breeze. Athena’s voice in her head counts off a sixth lap and directs her again- straight, turn, curve, turn, straight, curve, curve, turn, straight. She goes until her muscles burn and her lungs ache, until Athena stops directing her and advises her to break.

“Heart rate exceeding 160.” She slows down, legs tingling like a thousand needles being stuck into them. Air comes in quick inhales and sputtered exhales through her mouth. Hana walks back to the barracks, drenched in sweat, satisfied from her workout.

There is a woman in the training room when she walks through, easily benching 400lbs. Hana gapes a bit and nearly misses the doorway to the locker rooms, pushing back from the wall she almost runs into. She doesn’t miss the chuff of laughter from behind her as she scurries into the showers.

The warm water washes away the aches of physical exertion. She wraps her hair up in a towel and changes into the soft jeans and tee shirt she’d left in her locker.

The woman in the training room has paused her workout when Hana exits the locker rooms. She’s scrolling through her phone. The pink hair, the iconic tattoo- suddenly, Hana feels starry-eyed again and nearly leaps across the training floor.

“You’re Aleksandra Zaryanova!”

Aleksandra looks up, startled, but grins easily. “My reputation precedes me. A fan?” She sets down her phone on the bench behind her. Hana squirms from foot to foot.

“Duh! You were all over the news in Korea- our Olympic team thought you were going to blast our Gold medalist out of the ranks, and then you just quit! And you were _totally_ my inspo getting through basic!” Hana sighs, remembering the posters she had plastered up in her barracks. “This is crazy! You’re like, one of my biggest idols.”

In front of her, Hana witnesses one of the world’s best weightlifters and high-rank Omnic fighters _blush_ under her praise. “That is kind of you to say.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to be working together!” She glances at the door and winces. “I actually have to go do something, but-?”

Aleksandra waves her away. She has a big smile and a kindly air about her. “Go. I will be around, Hana Song.”

(She realizes in the hallway she’d never told the woman her name. It shouldn’t be, but it’s always a surprise when people know who she is.)

* * *

 

Lucio lazily skates a figure-eight around the bench where Hana lounges. The sun is low, now, and a mid-evening chill is beginning to settle over the base. She shifts her hand where it’s propped in her chin and watches the man do a complicated trick that ends with him on his ass on the ground.

She whistles. “Nice one.”

He flops back, grinning. “Yeah, you try it.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I’m no good on wheels. I can’t even ride a bike?”

“What?!” He squawks, sitting up. “How’s that even possible?”

“Dunno.” She shrugs. “My dad was the one who got me into games, we were never a very sporty family.”

“Bogus.” He cocks his head. “Hey, thanks for showing me around today.”

“No prob.” She smiles. “It’s nice having someone to hang out with. Everyone else is kind of…”

“Old?” Lucio gets up from the ground, quite well for someone on skates.

She laughs. “I was going to say ‘never around.’”

“Huh. I guess.” He shrugs, and looks up at the sky. “It’s a revolution after all.” His eyes, deep brown, sparkling in the waning light, look tired. Lúcio looks older than his years, infinitely more wise. It’s something she understands, or thinks that she does.

“I’m hungry. You wanna eat?” He asks, suddenly. The moment of tentative intimacy shatters.

“I could eat.” She agrees, standing from her bench.

“Cool.” He winks at her, and gives her a quick finger gun. “Race ya.” And with that, he’s off, with little more than a screech of sparks across the ground.

“Hey- no fair!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super late update. I've been dealing with a lot on my plate- job stuff, DMing stuff, I wrote some oneshots and my laptop decided to break for a few days. Hopefully I can get on track with a semi-regular schedule again! Thanks for hanging in there. <3
> 
> This chapter is a little weird maybe, as it's amping up to some serious stuff about to happen. I'm also starting to drop in some juicy tidbits, and as always, I can't write anything without shoving my rarepairs into the background. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Next Update (HOPEFULLY!): 6/10/2017

The dream takes her by surprise, as usual. She wakes up quietly, a relief. Her sheets are soaked with sweat and she fights off the pull of unconsciousness trying to drag her back under; trying to drag her back to that place. When she no longer fears falling back asleep, she gets up, cleans, and settles in for a stream.

Hana knows how to capitalize.

* * *

 

Athena wakes her up early, the light outside the windows a dull gray. Her computer is beeping, and her stream channel is still open, but offline. _Thank God_. Across the screen is a large alert. When she groggily swats at her mouse, it takes up the entire screen.

CONFIDENTIAL.

The giant letters flash menacingly for a moment and beneath them is a script asking for her agent identification. Hana carefully inputs it, suddenly alert and awake, heart pounding in her chest.

This is it.

* * *

 

The conference room is cold, and smells of disuse, but everything is sharp lines and militaristic order. She can handle this. The ragtag group of familiar and unfamiliar faces around the table is another matter.

Winston heads the group at the far end of the table, one hand slowly tracing lines on a paper while the other adjusts his glasses. Dr. Ziegler is speaking quietly with Ms. Oxton, and on the other side of the table, two omnics are laughing quietly.

She stops in the doorway, eyes glued to the two bots. “Um. Hello.”

“Hana, come in.” Winston’s voice is as kind as ever, and he holds up one giant hand to beckon at her. As she steps in the door slides shut behind her and locks. Feeling suddenly rude, she looks away from the omnics, but she feels she’s been caught. The sensation of eyes on her is unmistakable, though the entire room _had_ looked up as she’d entered.

“Now that we’re all here, let’s begin.” Winston gestures around the table and introduces them all in turn. There’s, of course, the infamous Tracer, who shifts in her seat and waves a hello. Mercy nods in acknowledgment to everyone around the table. Hana pastes on her most award-winning smile when introduced by her callsign. The more impressive, modern looking omnic is introduced as Genji, and he intones a soft hello. Beside him, the more outdated ‘bot, named Zenyatta, hums a ‘Greetings.’

“Of course, you all know me.” Winston chuckles. “I’ll be your sixth for this mission. It’s very simple, really.”

“You always say that, big guy.” Tracer tuts.

A giant paw is waved dismissively in her direction. “I wouldn’t send two newbies out on anything too tough.”

_Two?_ Hana looks at the omnics. _If I’m one of them, then…?_

“Oh, c’mon! My first mission was-”

“Tracer.” Mercy hushes her quickly.

“Aw, doc.” Tracer pouts and lounges back in her chair dramatically. “We’re all breakin’ the rules now!”

“As I was saying.” Winston clears his throat. “We’ll be running a simple recon mission.”

“And you want me for that?” Hana blurts. Several pairs of eyes are suddenly trained on her, and she swallows. “I mean, my mech is kinda loud.” She laughs, and it’s perfect and bubbly, not as anxious as she feels.

“You’ll be on the back line.” Winston tells her. “We’ll have you in your suit on standby, along with Zenyatta and I. Mercy, Tracer, and Genji will be infiltrating.” Genji’s chest puffs up, and Zenyatta says something to him quietly. They both laugh and Genji deflates. Across the table, Mercy smiles. For the first time since coming here, Hana wonders if she’s out of her depth.

“Now.” He holds up a stack of dossiers. “For the details.”

* * *

 

“I heard you got a mission.” Lúcio says over lunch. She looks at him quizzically, and he shrugs. “Lena’s _kinda_ a big mouth.”

“Oh. Yeah, then.” She pushes salad around with her fork. “We leave first thing in the morning.”

He whistles. “Pretty wicked, huh? Your first official Overwatch mission. Big stuff.”

“I guess.” She shrugs, and beams at him. “I’ve seen way worse than whatever Winston has us doing tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He shrugs and picks up his cup. The ice clinks as he swirls it, something he does habitually when he’s considering his words. Some she’s managed to pick up on it over the course of their short friendship. The Lúcio she knew _of_ , before all of this, always had a way with words. He was the perfect image of humble generosity, with that little spark of fighting spirit. A people’s man. Everything he says matters (or at least it does, to her.) “But recon’s the first part in something bigger, ain’t it always?”

( _“You’ll be shadowing Park today.”_

_“Yes, sir.” She doesn’t glance at the boy, not far to her left. He’s skinny, a bit lanky, with the tendency to slouch. She doesn’t look because she’s seen his face before, knows his habits; here, he stands straight.)_

“Right. I hadn’t thought of that.” She spears a chickpea and chews it slowly.

“But, hey.” Lucio shrugs and finally sips from his lemonade. “That’s why we came here, huh? Bigger and better things?”

“Right.” She repeats, smiles at him again, and her stomach churns.

* * *

 

The common room is cold, and she shifts to tuck her feet under her thighs. Rapidfire pings play through her headset and she swirls the joystick in time to the beat playing. The television is playing some movie from the ‘40s, an elderly Will Smith looking unimpressed with the villain. Their mouths move, and subtitles track across the screen, but she’s only noticing it in her periphery. Lena is lounged against the armrest, tapping restlessly as she watches. Dr. Ziegler is on the opposite couch, nearly asleep.

_Perfect Score!_ The victory jingle plays and she turns down the volume while her stats fill up the screen. Jesse waltzes in, bowl of popcorn in hand. “What’d I miss?” He drawls.

“He threatened ‘im, then he looked real mad but he didn’t do anythin’.”

“Shoulda just shot ‘im.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Lena raises her legs so Jesse can take a seat, throwing them down over his lap once he’s situated. She makes grabby hands for the popcorn and Jesse hands over the bowl.

Hana fiddles with the controls on her game. This is- weirdly normal. Not how she expected life in the super-secret organization of world class agents to go. Perhaps that wasn’t right- they used to be military, she was _used_ to military, so she should have expected this. Comrades bonding. But not really. Who could have expected to sit next to Tracer herself, watching a totally retro movie, debating the pros and cons of whether Will Smith should have shot the villain or not?

So. The new weirdly normal.

She tunes back into her game, starting up a master class round. Her hands fly over the buttons without much thought to it- right trigger, A, X, X, combo, slide- and she loses herself in the game, if only for five minutes. She goes somewhere else, in her head, when she’s playing games. It’s like a sixth sense, as natural as breathing air. Nothing else matters but the victory.

There’s a static noise as the song fades out- Lena rifling through the popcorn. Jesse has an arm draped over the back of the couch, his hand caught on some of Hana’s hair. Her game pings quietly as it autosaves.

“This is the common area…” A low, somewhat familiar voice echoes from the hallway. She looks up in time with Lena and Jesse to see Genji poke his head in, Zenyatta close behind.

“Uh oh.” She hears Tracer say quietly. Hana realizes Jesse has gone very, suddenly stiff.

Hana carefully reaches up to push her headset down around her neck. Zenyatta tilts his head. “My student, you seem tense.”

“My apologies, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Nonsense.” That’s Jesse, voice a little too loud for the atmosphere. “Why don’t you join us?”

“I’d rather not intrude.” Genji indeed seems nervous, a hand shifting to the doorjamb, looking like a bird ready to take flight in one simple motion.

“Really?” Jesse laughs a little, and he drags his hand away, jostling her hair. He wipes it down his mouth, tugging at his beard fretfully. “Mighty kind of you. Real _mannerly_ and _nice_ a ya.” He tugs again, and then breathes through his nose.

“Lena.” His voice is quiet, and he holds the bowl out to her. She takes it, wide eyed and silent, and quickly lifts her legs from his lap. Jesse stands from the couch and doesn’t spare the doorway holding the omnics a second glance as he trudges out into the opposite hallway.

Hana drags her eyes from the empty doorway to the bots. Genji is frozen, one shoulder arched away and the other tucked in, an utterly human display of rejection. Something about it makes her stomach roil, makes her blink. On the other couch, Dr. Ziegler snores. A gunshot blares from the television. Genji and Zenyatta murmur their farewells and disappear. After a moment, the popcorn rustles.

She puts her headset back on, and starts another round.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back! Sorry for the long wait. Life has been pretty hectic these past six months. I hope the wait was worth it, because I think you guys will like this one! As always, enjoy, and I welcome feedback. I... actually forgot to approve comments but I went through and did that recently. (Even when I don't, I read every single one!)

The cavernous drop ship they load into is outdated, dusty and dinged. Models like this must have been last seen in the dying throes of the Crisis. There is an irresistible pull to settle a wondering hand on the hull as they begin loading into the ship. It’s older than her, but still holding strong.

“She’s a beauty, huh?” She’s not proud that she jumps at the voice, gravely and excited and coming from _underneath the ship._ A man slides out atop a fluorescent orange creeper. When he stands, he reveals himself to be stout and smudged with grease. A well-worn jumpsuit slips off his muscular shoulders. He wipes grubby hands down the front of his smock and gestures at her. “Pleased t’meet ya, Ms. Song. I’m Torbjörn Lindholm, but most around these parts call me Torb.”

Hana blinks at the man and then furrows her brow. Why does that name sound so familiar, and why does it strike a frisson of dislike through her? When she doesn’t say anything, he continues on, if a bit nervously.

“I loaded your mech up- in the rear hold.” He points, weakly. “That’s one fine machine.”

“Th-thanks.” She flexes her hands at her side. When she glances up inside the ship she sees Lena shoving her duffle under a chair. “Are you… uh, a pilot?” It sounds stupid as soon as she says it, but it’s already left her mouth. She winces.

“A builder, ma’am!” He laughs this hearty little chuckle at her assumption and tucks his thumbs into his pockets. “An inventor, you’d say.”

Recognition hits her brain like a flame to a fuse and she has to school her expression. “Lindholm. Lin-Lindholm Creations. You built the early A-730d models.” Her voice is quiet, and for what it’s worth, Torbjörn looks sheepish.

“Ah- well, yes. I… did my work on a fair few omnics, in my time.” Her hands twitch again and his eyes flick to them. “Well, uh, I should be lettin’ you go. Have a safe’n now, hm?” He backs away slowly, like she’s likely to snap at him. She lets him go, if only because she’s now struggling to breathe.

“Ms. Song.” The voice is delicate and soothing, and she turns for the source. Zenyatta is floating at the base of the ship’s on-ramp. He is every picture of serenity. “You seem uneasy.”

“I’m fine.” She says, too quickly. A smile forms around her teeth, digging into her cheek in self-punishment. “Pre-mission jitters.” She steps onto the ramp and turns away.

“Of course.” His voice saps away some of her nerves but his presence plucks at a deep part of her to remain on alert. “I could always-”

“ _I’m fine_.” She repeats, and hurries off to her chair. Getting all the straps buckled into place takes up enough of her time that she can calm her breathing down. She finds the door is finally groaning to a close. The ship shudders enough to be concerning as it lifts up and the AI maneuvers it out of the hangar. Dr. Zeigler is flipping through a magazine in her own seat across from Hana.

Ascent takes a fair amount of time, but eventually Athena informs them they’re free to move around. Winston has them convene around the large table in one corner of the ship as he spreads out an ancient, weathered blueprint. She’s seen it a few times in their weeks of planning. He pins it down with a few spare magnets, and settles his tablet over a useless corner.

“Alright team, let’s run through the plan once more.”

* * *

 

Hana repositions herself in the cradle of her mech, worn leather comfortable against her ribs. She taps a thumb idly on the trigger, an old habit. The safety is still on so she worries at it, _click click click._ She’s counted the slats on the aged air conditioner units on the rooftop probably twenty times now. Her cue will be coming up any moment now, if everything has gone according to plan.

“D.Va, come in.”

Her comms lights up across the holo-display. She reaches with her left hand to activate an outgoing transmission and answers affirmative to Lena. “Reading you, Tracer.”

“We’re on the fifth floor.” Hana trails her eyes across the display to the minimized infrared map and enlarges it with her right hand.

“Payload in hand?” She asks, tracking the mass of frenetic, moving heat signatures. There’s a long, breathless moment when there comes no response. “Tracer?”

“Coming up on sixth floor. Payload ahead.” That’s Genji’s voice. The omnic next to her shifts, nearly imperceptible. Without experience, Hana is sure she wouldn’t be able to tell. Zenyatta is listening to the entire exchange without input. His eyes have strayed to the far end of the roof where the roof access is. She spares him a curious glance before replying.

“One floor to go.” She replies, and brings up a side-by-side of the blueprints and the heat map. “You have two new enemies- ahead, on your right.”

“One down, I-” Genji’s sounds out of breath before the transmission cuts out. Her comms blare an alarm. Hana looks up and sees Zenyatta jerk, and an orb go flying. She slams a hand over her defense matrix just in time for it to shield the omnic from a volley of pulse munitions.

“Behind me!” She orders him, then flicks off the safety on her canons and slips a hand around the trigger. “We’re under fire, up here!” She spits over the comms. More shots come from behind one of the A.C. units. As she tries to track her enemy she realizes the door at the end of the roof is open. _When-?_

A rapid-fire set of rounds hits the left side of her mech and another alarm starts to blare in the cockpit. She exhales and sends off a few of her own rounds, bullets tearing through the thin, rusted metal of her enemy’s cover. A dark figure rolls out from behind the units and a small, projectile missile tears into the hydraulic joint of the mech’s left leg. Klaxons chime and a red light pulses above her head.

“I can only repair so much damage.” Zenyatta intones over comms. She sees him directing an orb over her.

“It’s fine-” Another shot hits her left flank, rocking her mech. She takes her hands off the controls for a second- to quiet the alarms screaming in her ears- and before she knows it her shield is completely depleted. She grits her teeth and leans into the controls, wild and full throttle. She wheels around, aims in the direction of her attacker and fires. For a heartbeat there is no returning gunfire, then bullets ping against the hull once more. The alarms continue to scream and in her head there’s _crashing waves, high enough to swallow her and the crazed call of gulls. The rush of blood in her ears or maybe the surf in a seashell._

Her hand twitches around the boosters. Her mech sputters, but the gunfire cuts to an abrupt stop. When she lands on the roof, the figure cuts once more, this time behind the main ventilation access. She’s a quick draw, aiming and firing in succession. Her bullets meet the foe at his next cover. She sets up the next shot.

“D.VA, pull back!” That’s Mercy in her ear.

She falters for a moment. “What?!”

“ _Don’t shoot!_ ” And Tracer?

“What do you mean _don’t shoot_?” She squeezes her hand around the controls but keeps her thumbs away from the triggers. The door at the end of the roof rattles as a group of people come tumbling out. Genji explodes through the doorway and Hana watches wide-eyed as he pushes a body away from him with his foot. The man goes spinning away in an arc of blood as Genji loosens him from his blade. He falls to the ground, graceful as a cat, on his toes. Behind him come Tracer and Winston in a blur of movement, with Mercy taking up the rear.

D.Va watches Tracer zip around the roof and exchange gunfire with her enemy, witnessing only quick flashes of her blinks and pulse munitions. Genji is stalking along ventilation units, climbing and leaping and heading off the enemy from behind before she hears-

“Tracer, don’t-!”

“ _You_!”

Next comes the violent sounds of bullets, rending metal, and vicious yelling.

Her display notifies her that her boosters have cooled, so she directs her mech over the ventilation units and lands atop one of the sturdier ones. Winston is right behind her, and she watches Mercy touch down beside the two of them in her periphery. Beneath them, she sees a struggling mass of three bodies. Genji is trying to wrench Tracer off the gunman while also attempting to keep his wakizashi pressed to the man’s throat. In the struggle of limbs a face becomes clear and Mercy gasps.

“Stop!” Thunders Winston, and he lands beside the three with a tremble that rocks even Hana’s mech. Finally Genji manages to get Tracer off the man and he directs her away, his arms wrapped around her suddenly shaking frame. Hana blinks, confused at the display of emotion. Tracer crumbles in Genji’s grasp, hanging limply, head tucked to her chest. Genji leans in over her shoulder, must say something to her because she shakes her head. Hana watches the omnic sheathe his sword.

Meanwhile, Winston is holding the man down with one foot and has begun to roughly divest him of his weapons. Hana watches as his gun gets kicked aside and as glowing biotic units go rolling across the pockmarked concrete of the roof. A cascade of bullets are cruelly tossed aside, echoing in the now too-quiet night. She sees a mask, glowing red and cracked, to the side of the gunman’s face, which-

She blinks, again, and makes a noise of recognition. “That’s-”

“Long time no see, Jack.” Winston rumbles.


End file.
